


off like a prom dress

by makemadej (santamonicayachtclub)



Series: Skirting the Issue [2]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Corsetry, Crossdressing, First Kiss, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:59:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/pseuds/makemadej
Summary: This is a bit of a Choose Your Own Adventure that follows Skirting the Issue until the middle of chapter two, where Shane fantasizes about Ryan blowing him while he's all done up like a pretty Victorian princess.So, that being said...what if he did?





	off like a prom dress

 

“You didn’t know you could look this pretty, did you?” Ryan continues. “It’s not a bad look, man. There’s probably a bunch of old-ass ghosts giving you the eye right now.”

“ _Ryan_ ,” Shane pleads again.

“Have I been enough of a boner killer yet?”

Shane’s throat locks up.

Ryan flushes again, a dozen emotions flashing across his face in rapid succession. “Oh, no. Am I making it _worse_?”

Shane can’t answer.

 

* * *

 

 

“You really do. Look pretty, I mean.”

“Yes,” Shane chokes out. “Yes, Ryan, you’re making it worse, holy shit.”

This has to be someone’s sick idea of a prank. A really sick, really specific prank that involved getting period clothing and coaxing Shane into it, then banking on him getting the most inopportune hard-on in the history of inopportune hard-ons in front of everyone. It seems more absurd the longer he thinks about it, but Shane’s capacity for rational thought is diminishing by the moment and he barely knows which way is up anymore. It just doesn’t fit, not with the incredibly specific circumstances and not with Ryan’s sense of humor, which ranges from twelve-year-old guttersnipe to dad joke aficionado but is never _cruel_. Which leaves the sad alternative of Shane having the worst luck and the most traitorous penis in the world.

Even now, Ryan is watching him without a trace of mirth, hands lifted ever so slightly like he’s about to start conducting an orchestra. Or like he thinks Shane might lunge at him and need to be calmed.

“Hey,” he says in a soft, cautious voice that gives no indication whatsoever he’s regarding Shane as a punchline. “Ruby already told the whole world I called you a tall drink of water.”

“So?” Shane croaks.

“I don’t know,” Ryan grimaces, “does thinking about my embarrassing moment make yours a little less shitty?”

Something isn’t computing, which seems on-brand enough for the day. Shane snorts. “How does informing a historical reenactor of my tallness equal embarrassing for you?”

“Oh my god, you’re so dense it’s disgusting. When do I ever compliment you on anything?”

“I mean, you just called me pretty.”

Ryan’s eyes practically triple in size. “Exactly!”

This is getting next-level ridiculous. “Spell it out for me, man.”

“Okay, fine,” Ryan bursts out. “Fine. If you need help with your situation, I’m offering.”

Shane sits down very hard on the edge of Lizzie’s bed.

“And if you don’t,” Ryan continues, “I’m counting on you not having enough blood rushing to your head right now to remember anything. So.”

The corset forces his posture to stay immaculate, which is awfully convenient. Without it, Shane would probably collapse into himself and dissolve into the ether, leaving behind nothing but the sizzle of fried nerves and a scattering of cartoon question marks.

“Shane,” says Ryan, a little unevenly, “please just say something.”

“You’re trying to get into my pants while I’m wearing a skirt.”

Ryan looks a bit abashed. “I mean.”

“And while our whole crew is in the next room.”

“Well.”

“ _Ryan_.” Shane is smiling. “That’s just plain dirty.”

“Says the dude who’s all boned up times two.”

Shane tilts his head in a _touché_ gesture. Whatever they’re doing here, it seems wrong to do it in Lizzie Borden’s bedroom. “Are you trying to tempt Lizzie into throwing a tantrum?”

“I’m trying to tempt _you_ , you overgrown moron.”

“Ah,” Shane says calmly. “I’m gonna hyperventilate.”

Ryan’s fingers flex. “You want me to unlace--?”

Shane still hasn’t recovered from Ryan lacing him into this thing in the first place “No, it’s okay, I’m just...you can leave it on. If you want. I’m okay.”

He isn’t okay. The bed beneath him is the only solid thing in existence and even that feels like it could disappear at any moment, leaving him adrift in whatever strange parallel world they’ve slipstreamed into. This was only ever supposed to be a bit, a stick-Shane-in-a-Victorian-gown-for-science bit that they’d edit seamlessly into the typical Unsolved narrative. Only nothing happening now fits that narrative and it had damn well better not be a bit. Shane already invests so, so much effort in not letting his heart try to crack through his ribs and crawl into Ryan’s chest instead, like some sentient Lovecraftian valentine. If this is all some twisted cosmic joke, he’ll never be able to look himself in the eye again, let alone Ryan.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says, looking miserable. His hands are opening and closing at his sides, a tic that for some reason strikes Shane right in the gut with the vulnerability of it. “I’m really, really sorry. Fuck, man, I thought you knew and were just being nice by acting like you didn’t.”

Shane screws his eyes shut, half expecting Ryan to have disappeared whenever he reopens them. He can’t have missed this. Ryan wears his emotions on his sleeve, every smile and shriek and shut-up-Shane popping out of him uncensored. Ryan is also a deeply anxious person under those dazzling grins and gloriously thick biceps, wanting to be liked and praised and Shane _does_ ; he indulges Ryan’s every whim and bends over backwards to make him laugh and brings him coffee when he can’t tear himself away from going over their edits until he’s positive they’re perfect. Ryan standing there saying _I thought you knew_ in that soft voice is all wrong, it inverts everything, leaves him unmoored.

It means there have been so many things Shane _hasn’t_ noticed about Ryan because he was so busy trying to keep the same things unnoticeable in himself.

He wants to reach for Ryan to anchor him, but the most mocking recesses of his mind cheerfully suggest now would be an excellent time to slap himself, and it’s a moot point anyway since he certainly can’t loosen the death grip he has on the mattress edge. There’s a lurch of emotions inside him, roiling together in a storm that makes him squeeze his eyes shut even tighter, and that’s when Shane realizes his lungs aren’t cooperating.

“Shit, you really _are_ hyperventilating.”

Ryan makes a small, distressed sound and when Shane finally opens his eyes he’s perched on the bed beside him, reaching out with a hesitant hand. “I’m just gonna loosen this, don’t freak out.”

“It’s not a bad kind of hyperventilating,” Shane protests, but his breath doesn’t get any less tremulous as Ryan struggles to unknot the corset strings.

“Great, you’re also delirious. I’m gonna get you some water and then we can just--”

“You can’t leave.”

Ryan freezes, half standing. It takes Shane several seconds to realize it’s because he’s reached out and caught him around the wrist.

“It’s not a big deal, I’m just gonna tell everyone we need to wrap up for the--”

“So text them. I need you here. Okay?” There’s an urgency woven into the words that makes his voice sound like it isn’t even his own. He gives Ryan’s arm a light tug and Ryan lets himself be guided back over towards the bed.

Then he keeps right on going.

“Please don’t freak out,” Ryan is saying, and Shane wants to make some wisecrack about how he needs to work on his self-soothing mantras, but Ryan clearly isn’t waiting for an answer.

Ryan’s brow is creased with something inscrutable, his fingers like little licks of fire against Shane’s cheek, and then all at once he’s wrapped up in the surreality of Ryan kissing him, of Ryan bending _down_ to kiss him.

And Shane is straining up to meet him on instinct, the steel spines of the corset encasing him like a strange reassuring hug, fingers catching at Ryan’s hair as their mouths brush together, hot and clumsy. They could both be hyperventilating now for all Shane knows. It all susurrates together, the two of them breathing into each other as if their bodies are somehow struggling to find a rhythm before one of them spontaneously combusts. Ryan makes a small sound against his mouth and slips him a quick tease of tongue, and that’s when Shane stops caring about anything else.

He wants to guide Ryan down to him, wants to tilt his face up for more, wants to nuzzle his cheek into the warm pressure of Ryan’s palm like a cat. What he does instead is jam the heel of his hand between his legs, over the frothy Victoriana trappings he’s still wearing, and unleash the most unflattering groan/whine hybrid against Ryan’s jaw.

He barely registers that Ryan is speaking again, a staccato rush of words half lost in the hammering of Shane’s pulse.

“--want it. We can talk about it later or pretend it didn’t happen, whatever you want, just let me.”

“Let you what?”

Ryan’s tongue flickers out, dashing pink and damp against his lower lip. “Lemme get on my knees for you.”

There’s a rawness in his voice, a plaintiveness in his eyes, and Shane’s throat goes tight with unsaid responses. _This really isn’t the time_ and _what else have you been wanting to tell me_ and _oh Ryan._

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hears himself saying, more a sharp rush of air than actual speech. “We’ve been gone too long already, everyone’s gonna wonder wh--”

“I’m on it,” Ryan says, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. “I’m telling ’em you’re not feeling great and need to lie down. And...and we can cut all the Ruby stuff, I’ll drop the clothes back later and--oh fuck, you didn’t actually even say yes, did you?”

“Ryan,” Shane says, gathering himself and the frilled hems of his skirts. “This is your dumbest idea ever and I’d be honored to be part of it.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Ryan breathes.

Lizzie’s door doesn’t lock without a key they don’t have, but after some awkward maneuvering Ryan notches a curlicued chair under the brass doorknob. “This always works in the movies, right?”

It’s on the tip of Shane’s tongue to ask just what kind of movie they happen to be in. Dadaist analytics helpfully bounce through his head: two parts quirky romcom, three parts historical drama, one part niche porno, seven parts arthouse madness...

“You really want to do this for me?” is what he says instead.

And there’s Ryan, within touching distance again, and there’s Shane easing his hand carefully into his hair to cup the back of Ryan’s head, noticing the way it makes his eyes slide languidly shut.

Ryan looks blissed out of existence, which is a thought Shane is going to store aside for later and then turn over until it’s worn smooth, but his voice is pure and simple sass. “If I haven’t convinced you by now that I’m so down for this, no pun intended, you can pretend I’m being possessed by the vengeful spirit of Papa Borden or something.”

“There are no vengeful spirits,” Shane grumbles automatically, a bit disgusted that his erection hasn’t flagged at all at that suggestion. “You’d probably get off on that, though, a little ghostly roleplay.”

Ryan shrugs affably. “People in haunted houses with boners shouldn’t throw stones. But if you wanna discuss what gets me off, we can pencil that in.” The words are nothing but casual, but something underlying his tone stands out, something that sounds even to Shane’s untrained ear like it’s thrumming with _oh god please please let’s pencil this in._

Then he kneels.

Ryan’s dark head ducks between his thighs, framed by Shane’s white-knuckled hands caught in fistfuls of primly sprigged cloth. “There you go, keep your dress up for me,” he murmurs, and Shane catches the slant of a smirk before Ryan thumbs open the button of his jeans like he’s done it a thousand times.

And isn’t that a thought.

“Fuck,” Ryan whispers, drawing the word out as he’s drawing Shane’s fly down. “Oh my god, this crazy, I swear I’m gonna wake up any second and be so fucking disappointed.”

“That would be some serious Inception shit,” Shane says, impressed by how steady his voice sounds. “Shared dreaming and all that.”

“Shane.” Ryan has a hand resting on his inner thigh, and even though his jeans the heat of his touch makes Shane’s cock throb. “You’ve gotta tell me if you wanna...not get your dick sucked in Lizzie Borden’s bedroom. I swear I’ll understand if you change your mind.”

Even with the corset strings loosened, Shane finds himself practically choking for want of air.

“I’m not changing my mind.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting--a nod, a smile, a snarky remark, some permutation thereof? Instead, the next thing he knows, Ryan is tugging his jeans down off his hips and _nuzzling_ him through his boxers.

The hot puff of his breath against Shane’s inner thigh, the firm press of his cheek against the line of his cock, it’s enough to make Shane’s hips jolt and his vision swim. He catches a groan between clenched teeth, tries not to buck into the feel of it when Ryan lets out a sigh and fucking rubs his face against Shane’s hard-on through the cotton of his boxers, like the world’s kinkiest brand of scent-marking. His lips are parted, the hot-damp feel of his mouth catching on the cotton stretched over the bulge of Shane’s cock. If Shane could somehow fuck his mouth through it, he would..

“ _Good_ ,” Ryan murmurs, lips moving against the underside of his dick. “Yeah, that’s good.”

He could be addressing Shane or just murmuring commentary to himself in that way he has that's both infuriating and endearing. Then he brings a hand up, splays it over Shane’s inner thigh, thumb rubbing gentle circles under the hem of his boxers until it’s a fraction of an inch from brushing his balls. “Let’s get you off, huh?”

Again, the audience is unclear. He could be talking to Shane or just to Shane’s underwear. Shane doesn’t dwell on this, just lifts his hips and lets Ryan drag his boxers down and out of the way. He can’t help wincing when his cock bobs free, vulnerable and need-hot, kissing a patch of dampness below his navel.

Helpfully, Ryan guides him to part his thighs a little more, making a space for himself between them. “You’re wet.” He sounds just short of reverent.

“Yes,” Shane says dumbly, like he’s confirming an order for takeout. He bunches the skirts into his fists, determined not to soil the petticoat when he feels a soft spurt of precome leak out of him.

Ryan looks up at him with darkened dream-wide eyes. “That is so fucking hot.”

Then he’s gripping Shane’s bare hips with strong, capable hands and coaxing him to move forward just a bit, until Ryan’s warm lips are parted around the head of his cock.

When Ryan moans, he can feel it all the way down.

His mouth is sinful, soft and hot and so slippery it’s obscene. This isn’t like anything Shane ever imagined: it’s better.

Ryan plays with him. He sucks at him like he’s hungry, small sounds bubbling up inside him. He cups Shane’s balls in one hand, squeezing just this side of too roughly, then rewarding him with tender strokes when Shane utters an actual whimper. He’s deliberately lewd about angling his head until Shane’s cock is sliding along the velvety soft inside of his cheek. He laps and slurps at him with hedonistic shamelessness, glancing up through his lashes to make sure Shane is getting a nice long look at the way his cheek bulges around the shape of him.

There’s a manic spark in Ryan’s eyes that has Shane on the edge of losing his breath all over again.

He squirms, the half-undone corset cover billowing over his chest. Shane has to let go of his skirt in order to reach down and undo the first clasp on the busk so he can drag more air into his lungs, gasp and whine for Ryan like he deserves. Even that isn’t enough, so he fumbles open another, leaving the corset gaping over his chest until it disappears into the soft lawn of the cover. His fingers are so clumsy he almost loses patience with its fiddly little buttons and has half a mind to yank it the rest of the way open. _Bodice ripper_ , his mind supplies, and Shane swallows down a hysterical giggle as Ryan swallows down his cock.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Shane whispers, and almost comes then and there from the vibration of Ryan’s laughter around his dick.

Ryan knows all too well what he’s doing, from the curl of his tongue to the flex of his fist, slick and sweet and ruthlessly good.

Somehow, Shane manages to struggle the buttons undone.

Through it all, Ryan keeps working his mouth down on him hard and fast. He utters a strangled, wet whine the first time Shane bumps the back of his throat, but his rhythm doesn’t falter. If anything, Ryan seems determined to keep taking him that deep, letting Shane rub and pulse against his throat as he struggles to swallow as much of him as possible.

As if, Shane realizes hazily, he’s trying to take in the taste of him and memorize it. As if maybe he thinks this is the only chance he’ll get.

Deliberately, he releases the dress and lets it fall in folds around them.

One of his hands curls around the warm arch of Ryan’s nape. The other combs through his hair--not tugging, not being _that_ asshole--just carefully brushing his damp bangs off his forehead and then stroking him there, over and over.

“You’re so good at this,” he finds himself murmuring, a slew of soothing praises he can barely hear over the rush of his heartbeat, “holy shit, Ryan, you’re so fucking good, how did you even learn how to--oh my _god_. Yeah, like that, just like that, you’re doing great.”

Ryan whines, jerks a little down there on the floor.

“You’re so--I’m gonna--fuck, gonna come, _Ryan_.”

“Good,” Ryan says, muffled, beatific.

Shane looks around frantically. “There’s nowhere for you to spit.”

“I don’t spit,” Ryan says casually, like every word he utters isn’t ricocheting through Shane’s psyche like a cherry bomb.

He presses his tongue to the sensitive spot just beneath the flare of Shane’s cock head, lapping there like he’s dying for the taste.

A bolt of need lances through Shane, balls drawing in tight, so close, so ready to spill into Ryan’s mouth because apparently that’s a _thing_ for him _._ It makes Shane shiver so intensely his head falls back, makes him wonder just what else is a _thing_ for Ryan, what other filthy, fascinating sides of himself he might be willing to share with Shane.

Ryan gives a hard, tight suck to his frenulum and Shane has to let go of his nape to smother a yelp in one hand.

Then that warm, wet perfection is enclosing him all over again as Ryan takes him in, all the way in, and swallows him down before Shane can register what’s happening.

He comes like that, tucked tight inside Ryan’s throat, utterly silent.

Impossibly, when the world settles, Ryan is still there, breathing hard and nuzzling into the crease of his hip.

“Ryan,” Shane ventures, just to confirm. “You okay?”

He can’t see the grin he gets in response, but he feels it. “Yeah, man. You?”

“Ryan,” Shane says again, hushed and a little disbelieving. It’s the only word he can manage,  murmuring it over and over as he reaches for him--smooths back his hair, down the slope of his thick shoulders, takes Ryan’s hot, sweet face in his hands.

“’S okay, I got you, lemme take care of you,” Ryan mumbles, as if he’s been doing anything else. His voice is raw, words a little slurry. ( _Because he just let you fuck his throat_ , Shane’s brain reminds him. That'll just about do it.)

There’s saliva smeared all down his chin, and when he swipes at it with the back of his hand it only leaves his mouth looking so used and pink it’s almost offensive. Ryan doesn’t seem to notice or care, licking Shane through the final twitches of the aftershock.

“You...wow. _Ryan_.”

Shane’s vocabulary still isn’t functioning on all bars, but he’ll get there. His fingers seek out the softness of Ryan’s hair again, stroking until he has Ryan practically purring as he leans his head against Shane’s thigh, a debauched vision framed in frilly petticoats and smugness.

“Can I--” Shane says, halting. “So...all right, that was. Um. I think we know this was not the best time or place for, not that I regret anything because I _definitely_ don’t regret anything.” He swallows. “So, uh, maybe not right here and now where Devon’s probably gonna try and break down the door any second, but I, uh, I want to make you feel like that too. If you’re okay with that.”

Ryan looks up at him, practically shooting off sparks. He’s bright and wild with something, the way he gets when he’s so sure they’ve made contact beyond the veil, excited and jittery and gorgeously, dazzlingly raw.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

Shane very nearly covers his face with his hands.

“I thought you just had a thing for getting all dressed up at first.” Pressing on Shane’s knees, Ryan leverages himself off the floor with a grunt and sits down once again on the mattress beside him.

Shane’s arms come up to enfold him instinctively, before he can overthink it, and he loses himself in him, in the feel of Ryan kissing softly at his lips, undoing the remaining clasps of the corset busk until the whole thing falls away. It leaves Shane feeling oddly exposed even though he’s still wearing a henley underneath.

Gently, Ryan pushes the corset cover off his shoulders as well and moves back in to kiss him once more, soft and lingering. “Shane. Were you ever gonna tell me?”

Uncharacteristically, Shane finds himself lost for words, but it seems as if that’s all the answer Ryan needs.

He looks almost dismayed, hand on Shane’s nape to draw his head down, resting their foreheads together. Shane’s heart does an alarming little quickstep that makes him worry he might be right on the brink of having a panic attack, but Ryan soothes him away from the edge, rubbing small circles into the sensitive notch behind his ear, holding him in place.

And Ryan watches him, without judgment or mockery. “Oh no, _Shane_...you really weren’t going to. You could have, though. You could’ve told me.”

A hollow laugh pushes its way out of Shane before he realizes it. He can’t even begin to explain that it wasn’t ever that easy, not with someone he values having in his life as much as Ryan. He’s not like that, he can’t just throw everything out at once and see what sticks. “No, I couldn’t. I’m a sheltered suburban boy who can’t go full-on sexually liberated LA even though I’ve been there for years.”

“Yeah, you’ve got some hangups. But that’s okay.” Ryan gives him a saucy look. “You’re still the prettiest princess I know.“

A shiver cascades down Shane’s spine.

“Hm. Maybe it’s a thing for getting dressed up too, huh?” Ryan teases.

Shane smirks and pecks him on the cheek, but he doesn’t answer.

He lets Ryan kiss him, tuck him back into his boxers, and help him shed the rest of the gown.

Later, once Shane can stand without immediately wanting to fall over and Ryan doesn’t look like he just walked off a porn set, they leave Lizzie’s bedroom and spin a yarn to their incredulous crew about Shane having a stomach ache _and_ a migraine _and_ a charley horse which of course made it impossible for Ryan to leave his side.

And even later, once they figure out how to discreetly have an imitation Victorian petticoat dry cleaned and return everything to the historical society, once the sun drifts below the horizon, that’s when the two of them drift up to the attic bedroom they’re sharing and neither of them even says a word about leaving the cameras on. And later still, when Ryan rides himself against Shane’s hand until he comes and they’re curled together like they can’t bear to not be touching, that’s when Shane finally answers him.

“You know it was always about you, right? Getting dressed up like that was just the cherry on top of the last straw on the camel’s cake.”

Ryan snorts and swats him with one of their discarded shirts. “Nice metaphor, brah.”

“And.” Shane isn’t wearing a corset, or anything else for that matter, but his chest feels too tight for his skin. “And I wasn’t ever going to say anything, but I wanted to. I really, really wanted to.”

When he burrows his face into the pillows, Ryan smooths his back for a long time, until Shane lets himself be guided over to rest against Ryan’s chest instead.  

“I know you did,” Ryan murmurs, and holds him tighter.


End file.
